"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether there is a reply to make."

"But may I write you?"

"I suppose I couldn't very well prevent you, if you were sure to put on
a three-cent stamp."

"Do you want me to?" persisted Orde.

She began gently to laugh, quite to herself, as though enjoying a joke
entirely within her own personal privilege.

"You are so direct and persistent and boy-like," said she presently.
"Now if you'll be very good, and not whisper to the other little pupils,
I'll tell you how they do such things usually." She sat up straight from
the depths of her chair, her white, delicately tapering forearms resting
lightly on her knees. "Young men desiring to communicate with young
ladies do not ask them bluntly. They make some excuse, like sending
a book, a magazine, a marked newspaper, or even a bit of desired
information. At the same time, they send notes informing the girl of the
fact. The girl is naturally expected to acknowledge the politeness. If
she wishes the correspondence to continue, she asks a question, or in
some other way leaves an opening. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see," said Orde, slightly crestfallen. "But that's a long time
to wait. I like to feel settled about a thing. I wanted to know."

She dropped back against the cushioned slant of her easy chair, and
laughed again.

"And so you just up and asked!" she teased.

"I beg your pardon if I was rude," he said humbly.

The laughter died slowly from her eyes.

"Don't," she said. "It would be asking pardon for being yourself. You
wanted to know: so you asked. And I'm going to answer. I shall be very
glad to correspond with you and tell you about my sort of things, if
you happen to be interested in them. I warn you: they are not very
exciting."

"They are yours," said he.

She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught herself, and sank
back.

"No, I won't," she said, more than half to herself. She sat brooding
for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang up, shook her
skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also
arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her shoulder.

"Admire your handiwork!" she told him. "You are rapidly bringing me
to 'tell the truth and shame the devil.' Oh, he must be dying of
mortification this evening!" She struck a great crashing chord, holding
the keys while the strings reverberated and echoed down slowly into
silence again. "It isn't fair," she went on, "for you big sim